


well-fed

by steebadore



Series: the smut locker [4]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Cooking, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, M/M, Service Submission, one (1) dick joke, zero (0) redeeming qualities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 04:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17718077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steebadore/pseuds/steebadore
Summary: Bucky's kneeling by the table when Steve gets home.





	well-fed

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you're stuck on another WIP and wake up with a bunch of nonsensical filth on the brain, and you just gotta lean into it.

He’s kneeling by the table when Steve gets home; naked with perfect posture, his hands pressed flat to his spread thighs. His head is bowed, eyes focused on the floorboards, but he feels Steve’s gaze sweep over him in one slow, heavy circuit, assessing him impassively as he pauses to unlace his boots in the doorway. 

Even in his bare feet, Steve’s steps seem loud as he walks toward Bucky, sure and deliberate until he’s standing so close Bucky can feel the warmth radiating from him. Steve’s hand reaches down, blunt fingers tapping under Bucky’s chin until he lifts his head to meet his eyes--or as close as Bucky can manage. He’s got dark circles under his eyes, and the way he holds his mouth tells Bucky everything Steve will never say about the last few days in the field, but his eyes are full of the same sharp intensity they always have for Bucky. 

“What’s for dinner?” he asks. The platter is right there on the table, the food simple and easily identifiable. But that’s not the point.

“Chicken,” Bucky answers, his voice gone quiet and rough. “With potatoes and broccoli.”

“How’d you make it?”

“Um, roasted,” Bucky says, licking his lips self-consciously. “With lemon and garlic and thyme. The broccoli too. Roasted I mean.” Steve raises a brow and Bucky wishes he could let his eyes slide away from Steve’s. He’d practiced all afternoon, muttering to himself as he chopped herbs and stared into the dim window of the oven, and still he’s stuttering under Steve’s steady, searing gaze. 

“And what else?” Steve prompts.

“Just - just the potatoes. Mashed with buttermilk. And butter.” The last part should be obvious, but Steve likes the details. 

“Hm,” Steve says, tapping his thumb against Bucky’s bottom lip before releasing him and sliding onto the chair pulled out at the head of the table. The wood gives a tiny groan when Steve settles his bulk onto it, and Bucky feels a thrill of solidarity. He knows how heavy that body is. The pressure and the ache of it. 

He keeps his eyes on the floor, listening to the scrape of serving spoon against ceramic as Steve dishes himself a plate, fighting to keep his fingers from curling into fists on his thighs when he hears Steve takes a bite, and then another. 

“Broccoli’s got a little heat to it,” Steve says after a long moment.

Bucky winces. “Um yeah, it’s the - some red chili. Anaheim. I forgot to say.”

Bucky holds his breath and waits, tension coiling in his gut and crackling under his skin. They don’t--he doesn’t get it every time. Sometimes it’s just a smile, or a nod toward the other chair. Sometimes it’s a warm, heavy hand in his hair and if that’s all he gets tonight, it will be enough. Steve has been gone for days, and he is very hungry and very tired, and Bucky’s job is to give him what he needs. 

“It’s good, Buck,” Steve says finally, and he has to lock his muscles to keep himself from melting into a Bucky-shaped puddle of relief at Steve’s feet. “Come here.”

Steve spreads his legs under the table, and Bucky crawls until he’s kneeling between them, shoulders curled and head tucked low to keep from knocking into the table and spilling Steve’s beer. He can see where Steve is hard beneath his pants, a thick ridge along his thigh. Can smell him too. The leather and metal of his belt sets Bucky’s teeth on edge, but the warm musk of Steve beneath it makes his mouth go wet and his gut draw tight. He smells like a man who’s been working up a sweat, working hard while Bucky’s been tucked safe at home, puttering around the kitchen in bare feet and soft clothes. 

“Go on, honey,” Steve says, resting a heavy hand on Bucky’s head. “You can get it out.”

His fingers shake a little as he unbuttons and unzips Steve’s pants, and he bites back a moan when he slips his fingers into his boxers and encounters smooth, hot skin. Steve’s cock pulses in his grip as he pulls it out, and Bucky feels lightheaded. He can hear the sounds of Steve continuing to eat above him, the scrape of fork against plate, the soft sounds of him chewing, but it feels like a long way off, like the table is a brick wall instead of a couple inches of solid maple. 

“Come on, get yourself fed,” Steve says, his hand slipping down to settle on the back of Bucky’s neck. And maybe the rest is far away, but Steve’s voice sounds like it’s right against his ear, cutting through the rush of blood in his head and the sound of his own panting breaths. Steve’s hand presses on his neck, firm and unyielding until Bucky’s mouth parts over the head of his cock. He makes a desperate noise at the taste, the stretch of Steve in his mouth, but it’s muffled by the slow, sure slide of him over his tongue, pushing into him until the thick head rests just at his throat. Steve’s hand fists in his hair, keeping Bucky right there, throat spasming around him, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes and spit just starting to drip down his chin. 

“Don’t move,” Steve says, and removes his hand. Bucky tightens his core to keep himself right where he’s left, bent awkwardly over Steve’s lap and choking on his dick. He tries to slow his breaths, pull them in as deep and even as he can with Steve’s cock clogging up his throat, but he doesn’t want to calm down. He wants this - this swelling panic, this particular fear and the desperation that fills him up until his ribs feel like they’re creaking around the weight of it all. The weight of Steve. 

He’s not sure how long he stays there, holding himself still, holding Steve in his throat while he finishes his dinner, but finally he hears the clang of the fork dropping onto the plate and the chair pushes back just enough to dislodge Steve’s cock from his throat. Bucky tightens his mouth to keep it inside him, risking a slow, gentle suck, chasing the taste. 

“Hungry tonight, sweetheart?” Steve says, pushing the hair out of Bucky’s face with both broad, warm hands and holding tight to the sides of his head. Bucky nods, going tight all over with the promise of what’s next. Steve’s mouth quirks. “Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.”

“Yes,” Bucky says obediently, mouth full. It comes out more like “yuhsgh” and Steve grins. 

“We’ve _got_ to work on your diction, Buck,” he says, and then snaps his hips, driving his cock deep, making Bucky gag and splutter until he catches his bearings. He wraps his fingers around the legs of Steve’s chair and holds on, holds still as he can as Steve sets a slow, brutal pace. Bucky’s head empties of everything but his rushing blood and pounding heart, the wet sounds of Steve fucking into him, and the muted moans he can feel trapped in his throat. He feels overwhelmed with it, with Steve; Steve’s hands on him, Steve inside of him, Steve’s punched out breaths and Steve’s pulse on his tongue, Steve using him just how he wants. He wants to be used. He wants to be useful to Steve.

Steve’s cock swells and he shoves it deep, one hand slipping down to squeeze at Bucky’s throat as though to feel the shape of himself inside Bucky. “Suck on it,” he grits out, pulling back until just the head of him rests on Bucky’s tongue. “But don’t swallow.” 

Bucky does what he’s told, ignoring the pang of confusion and disappointment at the thought of not getting to keep Steve’s come. He sucks and tongues at Steve’s cock, flicking his eyes up to Steve’s face and moaning when he sees the flush of red on his cheeks, his bitten lips pulled over gritted teeth, his eyes dark and focused on Bucky. Always on Bucky. 

“There you go, baby, there you go,” Steve gasps, coming in long, thick spurts, and tightening his hand around Bucky’s throat to help him resist the involuntary urge to swallow. 

He does his best to hold it all in his mouth, but some slips out around Steve’s twitching cock. Bucky makes a tiny, panicked noise that Steve doesn’t seem to register, eyes too busy tracking the spill from Bucky’s stretched lips down his chin, and the hungry satisfaction in them is enough for Bucky. He tightens his fingers in Bucky’s hair and begins to rock his hips gently, thrusting slowly in and out of his mouth. With every stroke, more runs down Bucky’s chin, running over Steve’s hand still gripped tight to his throat, wetting him to his chest. He can’t keep his eyes off Steve’s rapt face, whimpering around the cock in his mouth and the come spilling out of him.

“Look at you,” Steve says, voice rough and low. “Look how messy you are. No one ever taught you any table manners?” He laughs and shakes his head. “Don’t guess hungry little things like you ever get the chance, huh? Need it too bad.” 

Bucky whines and Steve strokes deeper. “Aw, that’s okay honey,” Steve says, voice going tight. “I’ll teach you.” Steve’s cock is swelling up again and Bucky feels his whole self swell in answer, chest expanding around the anticipation of more. 

“Just swallow it all down, sweetheart. There you go,” Steve pants out, spilling into Bucky’s throat with a loud groan. 

Bucky swallows convulsively, tears prickling and chest heaving in a mindless, weightless kind of gratitude. Steve’s hands go gentle, pulling Bucky back until his cock slips from his lips, and then pressing until his head is pillowed on his thigh. His fingers rub firm circles over his sweaty hair, his bruised throat, his swollen lips, muttering quiet words of praise that Bucky can hear but can’t quite parse. It’s enough. 

Steve holds out the bottle of beer a few minutes later, when Bucky’s breaths have evened out. “Gonna get come on it,” Bucky rasps. 

“Don’t care,” Steve says. “Take a drink. I’ll get you some water in a minute.” He presses the lip of the bottle to Bucky’s mouth, pulling gently on his hair until he tips his head back enough to take a sip. The beer is room temperature, but still feels crisp in his mouth, the bitterness a pleasant complement to the taste of Steve still heavy on his tongue. It hurts a little to swallow, the carbonation prickling against his abused throat, but it’s a nice reminder of how well-used he is. He wishes he could keep that swelled-shut feeling, as though Steve had pressed himself inside like a key and locked Bucky up for the night. 

The bottle disappears, replaced by Steve’s fingers holding a small piece of chicken. Bucky opens for it, pressing a kiss to Steve’s fingertips and letting his eyes drift closed while he chews. 

Steve was right. It’s good.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on twitter @steebadore if you want to see me tweet way too much about [gestures around vaguely] these idiots.


End file.
